


Smoke

by SylvanWitch



Series: Seasons [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each of the stories in this series features a particular season.  Smoke is dedicated to my favorite, Autumn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

Slowly, the scent of sweet smoke replaced the acrid taste of burning flesh at the backs of both their tongues, and the brothers took identical breaths of autumn.

 

Burnt umber and crimson caught the fire of the late afternoon sun, sending spinning light over their heads as leaves fell around them.

 

Dean scuffed his boots through a riot of color carpeting the loamy floor, the susurrus of his movement the only sound except their gentle breaths.

 

Someone was burning leaves, Dean knew, and he took in another lungful, as though it were sacred smoke, sage, he was breathing in.

 

They’d been on the hunt all night and had found what they had wanted, had killed it and burned it, per the usual.  They were both bone-weary with too many nights out, too long on the road without respite.

 

Sam was shuffling behind him, kicking up a flurry of yellow as he walked.

 

“Remember when we lived in Minnesota with Pastor Jim that one fall?”

 

Dean had been thinking of the same set of memories, and he gave a little grunt of acknowledgement, trudging on.

 

“God, I thought autumn might last forever that year.  I think I was in the…what—ninth?—grade…”

 

“Yeah,” Dean answered, half-listening, head caught somewhere between senior year and Sally Carson’s short plaid skirts.

 

“Dad hadn’t been back in weeks, and it was looking like we might get to stay with Jim that whole semester…”

 

Dean knew how the memory ended, and he wanted to head Sammy off.  Memory lane was a dead end that November, Dad dragging himself into Jim’s kitchen, bleeding, Sam sticking out his lower lip to keep from crying, Jim stitching him up while John hissed and threw back whiskey like it was water, Dean standing by, the good soldier, taking his orders from both men.

 

Dean stopped then in the umbrage of an old maple whose broad branches swept out to either side of them for what seemed like miles.  The low sun laved the underleaves with light, casting a green-yellow glow up from the blanket of bright wind-fall of color and reflecting it back down, so that Sam’s hair was topped with gold, his eyebrows afire, lashes catching and spilling sunlight down his cheeks.

 

Dean stepped into Sam’s space and captured his lush lips in a ravenous kiss, sucking Sam’s lower lip into his mouth, letting his tongue trace patterns on the inside of that lip, letting it lick the roof of Sam’s mouth, letting it ride writhing along Sam’s long tongue until his brother was breathless, panting and shaking, voice broken around a sound that might have been his brother’s name.

 

Pushing his brother back against the broad base of the old maple, Dean worked away the buttons of Sam’s jeans, dropped his hand inside Sam’s boxers and took his brother in hand, wrapping the warm length of him firmly, riding up the silken skin to the head, where he let the rough callous of his trigger finger brush the weeping slit.

 

Sam threw his head back, moaned aloud, and Dean couldn’t resist wreaking some havoc on that long column, teeth working tight little nips over the apple that bobbed enticingly under Dean’s hungry mouth.

 

Dean increased his speed, firm but not rough, just the way Sam liked it, and Sam groaned again, louder, trying to reach his own hand down Dean’s pants.

 

Putting pressure on that precious apple, Dean signaled that Sam should stop, and Sam’s hands fell away, helpless, to press, palms flat, against the rough bark of the bole.

 

“Close,” Sam managed, throat stretched to its limit as Dean laved hot lines along his jaw, licked into the shell of his ear, whispered something only Sam would know, and pulled the orgasm from Sam until his brother stuttered, “De---Dean,” and squeezed his eyes tight shut against the pleasure of it.

 

Sam opened his eyes to find Dean licking the last of Sam off of his palm, and Sam didn’t even stop to do up his pants as he dropped to his knees, freed Dean’s own straining shaft from the confining denim, and took his brother in his mouth.

 

Head back, eyes open, Dean felt like he was falling up into the twirling whirlwind of wind-spun leaves that were cast free of their branches by a sudden breeze.  Arms flung wide to help steady himself, he felt Sam’s arm wrap around him below his buttocks, felt his brother’s nose brush the hair of his belly, felt him sucked hard up against the back of his brother’s throat.

 

The friction made him cry out, calling, “Sam” on the smoke-sweet air, and he gasped and said, “Oh god, Sam,” and came down his brother’s throat for an eternity of sun-bright time.

 

Sam gentled him through it, leaned back to let Dean do up his pants, licked his lips lasciviously, sinful smile playing about the corner of his eyes.

 

Dean ran a hand through Sam’s hair, smiled in kind, and offered him the other hand to help him up.  Sam rose, still undone, and Dean thought debauched never looked so good.

 

“I love the fall,” Sam said as he did up his jeans and they left the bower beneath which they’d let themselves be painted in the light of a dying year.

 

“Yeah, fall’s good,” Dean concurred.

 

Both of them forgot, then, for a little while what Autumn also brought them:  a different kind of fire,  darkness, and demon dreams.

 

 


End file.
